


Stiles Stilinski and the Extended Baseball Metaphor

by Harlanhardway (Target44)



Series: Stiles Stilinski's Baadasssss Song [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baseball, Canon Compliant, Crack, Derek Hale appreciation, Derek Hale has an amazing ass, M/M, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Is Bad at Feelings, if Lydia and Stiles break up freshman year of college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/pseuds/Harlanhardway
Summary: Derek and Stiles go to the batting cages.  Derek is unfairly good at baseball and Stiles almost has a melt-down over how good Derek looks being unfairly good at baseball.  He doesn't though.  But then he does, because, holy shit, since when did feelings become a thing?





	Stiles Stilinski and the Extended Baseball Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> I make a few references to things that happen in season 5 and 6, which maybe not everyone has seen so here's a quick summary to catch you up.
> 
> Episode 1 of season 5: Scott and Stiles talk a bit about Derek, who has left for parts unknown. It's the beginning of their senior year and they attend a school event called "Senior Scribe" where the seniors sign their initials to a bookshelf in the library. Stiles sees the initials D.H. on the bookshelf above and kinda looks at it significantly for a second.
> 
> Season 6A: Second semester of senior year, Stiles is taken by the Wild Hunt. While there, he is held in limbo and all memory of him is erased from existence on Earth. Only Lydia has a vage inkling that something is missing. Eventually everybody remembers him, they get him back and he and Lydia get together.
> 
> **** I changed the title because I was annoyed that it didn't fit with the naming scheme.

  
  
  
_**Twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk dat ass**_  
_**Twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk dat ass**_  
  
  
Stiles might have a problem.  
  
  
**_Twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk, twerk dat ass_**  
**_Move that ass left and right gon' work dat ass_**  
  
  
Stiles definitely had a problem.  A really big problem.  
  
The batting cages had seemed like a good idea, okay?  Low-key, cheap, fun, something to do to distract from the awkwardness of going on a 'date.'  Stiles hadn't really played baseball since middle school, but he wasn't terrible at it and Derek seemed to like sports in general.  Although they'd never really talked about baseball in particular.  It had still seemed like a solid bet: the perfect second date.  Or at least not as lame as mini-golf.  
  
Yeah.  Stiles needed to up his research game.  Immediately.  
  
Never mind immediately, Stiles should have upped his research game as soon as he caught Derek drinking Four Lokos and playing fantasy football basically in his underwear.  Logically, Stiles had been aware that Derek hadn't sprung out of the ground fully formed in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses and that he did probably do other things besides battle ominous threats to werewolf-kind and lurk in dark corners somewhere in the background.  He had known that Derek was athletic, coordinated and in Greek God level good shape.  He had known that Derek, at least at some point, must have had a life and a family and, presumably, also friends.  
  
But there is knowing and then there is seeing.  
  
  
**_I got this girl, she don't go to school_**  
**_I got this girl, she don't go to work_**  
**_Because she twerk_**  
**_Cuz she twerk_**  
**_Cuz she twerk, twerk, twerk_**  
  
  
One thing was certain: whatever other mysteries Derek's secret life contained, baseball was somehow involved.  Because Derek was good at baseball.  Really good at baseball.  Stupid good at baseball.  He tee-ed off every pitch that came his way like it was standing fucking still, which was already attractive as all hell because Stiles had something of a competency kink, but Stiles had also vastly underestimated how devastatingly attractive Derek would look doing it, in full sunlight, on a hot summer day.    
  
Since when was Derek so tan?  Had his teeth always been that blindingly white and his eyes that shockingly green?  Were those really his real eyelashes?  Who even had black hair and green eyes outside of a romance novel?  Who actually looked like that in real life?  
  
Baseball had been a terrible idea.  A horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea.  
  
There was a low mechanical hum as the pitching machine sent another ball Derek's way and then a sharp crack as he made solid contact, batting it into the chain link fence on the far side of the batting cages.  
  
Stiles made a concerted effort to not drool.  
  
The thing about a good baseball swing was-- well, there were a lot of things about a good baseball swing.  It was kind of a complex, full-body sort of deal.  One might even say that there was an art to a good baseball swing.  But, the relevant thing about a good baseball swing was that most of its power was generated from the hips.  The swing started in the hips, followed almost immediately by the shoulders.  That's what made it a full-body motion: first the hips and then the shoulders.  Derek had great shoulders.  Derek had amazing shoulders.  Derek had the kind of shoulders that Captain America would be jealous of.  Stiles was not looking at Derek's shoulders.  
  
  
**_Ass ass ass ass ass_**  
**_Ass ass ass ass ass_**  
**_Ass ass ass ass ass_**  
**_Stop... now make that motherfucker hammer time_**  
  
  
Stiles kinda maybe had a staring problem.  
  
Stiles kinda maybe had every twerk song in existence stuck in his head.  
  
Stiles kinda maybe was having a hard time giving a shit.  
  
The pitching machine served up another ball and Derek rotated his hips smoothly into his swing, sending the ball flying back into the fence.  
  
Who was this person?  Since when did Derek play baseball?  Since when did Derek wear Clorox-bleach-white T-shirts that made him look stupidly, amazingly, earth-shatteringly, beautifully tanned?  And shorts.  Since when did Derek even own shorts?  
  
"Did you play baseball in college or something?"  Stiles finally sputtered out, because he had to say something and, _"Can I film you?  Not to post anywhere or anything, but just to have, because you look amazing and I can't even blink right now I'm so afraid of missing any part this,"_ would probably come across as: A) massively creepy and B) massively creepy.  
  
Derek glanced over at Stiles incredulously while he squared up for the next pitch.  "I didn't even graduate high school.  Why do you think I went to college?"  
  
"What?!  But... you... I mean... how did you not graduate high school?"  
  
"The house burned down when I was a junior."  Derek paused to hit another ball against the back of the cage.  "I probably could have gotten emancipated and stayed in Beacon Hills, but when Laura decided to head off to New York, it seemed easier just to go with her."  
  
"But I saw your initials in the library!"  
  
Derek gave Stiles a confused look as he squared up again in the batting box.  "What?"  
  
"You know, Senior Scribe, I saw where you signed..."  Stiles trailed off, suddenly painfully aware of how totally not unreasonable it would be for more than one person in all of Beacon Hills High School history to have the initials DH.  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about."  Derek sent the last ball flying into the chain link fence, then pulled off his batting helmet as the pitching machine wound down and turned itself off.  
  
Even with helmet hair, he was unfairly attractive.  Who was Stiles kidding?  The helmet hair made it worse.  It gave Derek an utterly unfair excuse to run his fingers through his stupidly attractive hair like he was starring in a commercial for L'oreal Men.  He probably wasn't even doing it on purpose, the bastard.  He was just that fucking attractive.  What the fucking fuck?  
  
"I got a GED eventually," Derek continued as he took off his batting gloves and put his baseball hat back on.  
  
Stiles really couldn't decide what was worse: Derek and his beautiful fucking hair or Derek in a snapback.  Derek owned a snapback.  Stiles was pretty sure he was operating on fewer than four brain cells at this point.  His thought processes consisted mostly of statements of disbelief, stupidly obvious observations, and semi-offensive song lyrics dedicated to Derek's ass.  
  
"I joined a bush-league team for a while," Derek was still talking, back on the subject of baseball, "but it's been a couple of years now."  
  
"I am not anywhere near as good as you."  
  
Derek flashed a smile as he walked over to the side of the cage to feed more quarters into the machine.  "Yeah, I figured."  
  
Stiles bristled, provoked into finally coming out of his slack-jawed stupor.  "What do you mean, you figured?"  
  
"Well, you played lacrosse in high school."  Okay, that was fair.  Lacrosse and baseball were mutually exclusive spring sports.  "And you don't appear to know how to wear a hat."  
  
"What?!"  
  
Derek smirked, then reached over Stiles' shoulder to flick at the brim of his backwards baseball cap.  "They tend to work better when you put them on right."  
  
"Geez, thanks for the fashion tip, Grandpa."  Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes, re-adjusting his hat from where Derek had messed with it.  
  
"I get it though," Derek continued, positively grinning at this point, "if I were an Angels fan I probably wouldn't want to advertise it either."  
  
"Oh my God, how can you even talk?  You're wearing a Mets hat!"  Stiles pointed accusingly at Derek's head.  "How could you betray your home state like that!"  
  
Derek shrugged, still smiling, his hand hovering over the start button on the pitching machine.  "What can I say, I was in New York for three years, they converted me.  Now are you ready, or are you gonna just stand there all day?"  
  
"You!... You...!"  Stiles flailed, picking up the discarded batting helmet and getting himself into position.  "You disgust me, Derek Hale!"  
  
"Uhuh.  I can tell."  Derek's retort was as deadpan and dry as the Nevada salt flats.  "You ready?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, go for it."  
  
Derek hit the start button and the machine whirled to life.  The first pitch came out and Stiles only caught a piece of it, sending it veering off sharply to the left and into the foul zone.  
  
"I'm warming up."  Stiles grumbled as he squared off again for the next pitch.  
  
"I didn't say anything."  
  
The next pitch popped off his bat, went straight up, hit the chain link stretched over the top of the cage and came down again about ten feet away.  
  
Stiles glared over at Derek.  "Not a word."  
  
Derek lifted both hands in denial.  
  
After two more bad hits, Derek did eventually speak up.  "Your swing isn't really that bad."  He started forward.  "You just need to..."  
  
Stiles immediately lowered his bat, backing quickly away from the batting box.  "Wow there.  I may or may not be accepting pointers from the peanut gallery, but I am not a girl."  
  
There was a moment of awkward silence in which Derek raised a judgmental eyebrow and Stiles blinked a few times in surprise.  
  
"Okay, that came out way more sexist than I intended.  What I meant was: I have ADHD and control issues.  If you try to stand behind me and 'correct my grip' or whatever, it's just gonna make me frustrated and uncomfortable.  But not uncomfortable in a good way.  More like uncomfortable, in a confusing, vaguely like I'm being molested by my T-ball coach kind of way.  So just: stay where I can see you."  
  
Derek looked at him askance for a second, then threw back his head and laughed.  "Got it, hands-off while you're in the zone."  He shook his head, still grinning.  "Just calm down.  And stop over-rotating, you're throwing yourself off."  
  
Stiles let the next pitch pass him by in favor of making a face and throwing a rude gesture in Derek's direction before squaring up again.  
  
Derek had a great laugh too, it was entirely too unfair.  
  
~~~~~  
  
In the spirit of research, Stiles decided to start compiling a running list of all the new things he had learned about Derek Hale.  
  
Item Number One: Derek liked baseball.  
  
Derek really really liked baseball.  
  
It was less that Derek had a favorite team that he followed as it was that he followed all of the teams, with maybe a slight preference for the National League, since he considered the  Designated Hitter rule to be stupid and sort of cheating.  He could quote entire scenes from Bull Durham, Major League and The Natural and had taught himself basic statistics just so he could better understand player projections.  
  
Item Number Two: Derek had, at one point, held down a normal-person, real-life job.  
  
After he had spent their first six months in New York doing essentially nothing, Derek's sister had given him an ultimatum: either go back to high school, or get a job.  Derek had opted for a GED and a job and had worked the midnight shift at a bakery for the better part of the next three years.  
  
Item Number Three: Derek Hale had worked as a baker.  He baked.  
  
This really needed to be expanded upon.  
  
Item Number Four: Derek liked Chicago-style hot dogs and was kind of judgy about it.  
  
After a few hours in the batting cages, they headed over to the concessions stand to grab something to eat.  They decided they were going to take their food over to the parking lot, where they wouldn't have to listen to the middle schoolers shrieking over on the mini-golf course, and when Stiles had asked for his hot dog with ketchup, the look Derek had given him had been positively disdainful.  
  
"I never would have taken you for a fast food snob, Derek."  Stiles teased as he settled back against the side of the camaro.  "Ketchup is the condiment of the people.  Are you too good for the condiment of the people?"  
  
"Do you know how much sugar is in that stuff?  It's basically tomato-flavored syrup."  
  
"So?  It's not like a hot dog is a health food to begin with.  Don't tell me you're one of those people who goes to IHOP and orders buckwheat pancakes, dry, with half a lemon?"  
  
Derek chewed for a second, waiting to swallow before he replied.  "No.  I'm one of those people who doesn't want to sugar-crash twenty minutes after eating breakfast and orders an omelet."  
  
"Eh," Stiles shoved the last of his hot dog into his mouth, "I bet you just don't have a sweet tooth."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"Well," Stiles continued, licking ketchup off his thumb, and balling up the paper sleeve his hot dog had come in to throw in the trashcan next to the car, "do you eat the bacon?"  
  
Derek gave Stiles a questioning look, refusing to talk with his mouth full.  
  
"An omelet comes with bacon or breakfast sausage and since breakfast sausage is fucking disgusting, the only real option is either bacon or nothing so: do you eat the bacon?"  
  
Derek nodded.  
  
"There you go, no sweet tooth.  Bacon is terrible for you.  If you were an actual health nut, you wouldn't eat the bacon."  
  
Derek rolled his eyes, stepping in front of Stiles to throw his trash away, and then turning to face him.  His sunglasses were hanging from the neckline of his shirt and when he smiled Stiles could see the laugh lines that formed in the corners of his eyes.  Stiles had never noticed them before.  
  
He widened his stance very slightly and Derek took half a step forward.  They were suddenly very close.  
  
Derek leaned in.  "Maybe I just like to be a little self-indulgent sometimes."  He took his hat off, reaching behind Stiles to put it down on the roof of the car and then pulling Stiles forward into a kiss.  He did it in one motion and it was motherfucking smooth.  
  
He had done this before.  
  
Not that Derek had seemed particularly unskilled the last time they had kissed.  But the last time they had kissed, Derek had been pretty drunk.  Kissing drunk Derek had been a whole different experience.  Drunk Derek had been loose-limbed and relaxed, freshly shaven, in sweatpants and bare feet.  Everything about it had been soft and almost dream-like.  There had even been dim lighting and quiet background music.  (If the theme song to Madden 17 counted as quiet background music, which Stiles definitely thought that it should.)  
  
Sober Derek, or high-on-baseball Derek, or outside-in-a-parking-lot-on-a-bright-summer-day Derek, or whatever-the-fuck-this-was Derek was definitely not loose-limbed, or soft, or in anyway dream-like.  He was full-on.  His five o'clock shadow was rough against Stiles' face and he kissed like he was daring Stiles to either kiss him back or stand there and let himself be eaten alive.  His hands drifted down to grip Stiles' hips and Stiles automatically reached out to steady himself against Derek's shoulders as Derek crouched down, very slight, and--  
  
Stiles was off his feet.  
  
Derek had him pressed up against the side of the car, his legs spread open and his hips tilted up.  He tugged at Stiles' legs as he pressed in closer and it took Stiles a second to figure out what he wanted and wrap them around Derek's waist.  He felt disoriented.  Overwhelmed.  Stiles had never had anyone pick him up before.  
  
Well, no.  Obviously Stiles had been picked up off his feet at various points in his life, just never quite in this context.  Never in anywhere close to this context.  And now Derek's hands were on his ass and Derek's tongue was in his mouth and Derek's chest was pressed up against his own and, Jesus Christ, Derek was strong.  And had the prettiest goddamn hair.  And the smoothest fucking skin.  And the most unfairly beautiful motherfucking smile and Stiles had never previously had any interest in allowing anyone to put so much as a finger in his ass before, but, as of now, he was definitely, unequivocally, one hundred percent onboard with bottoming for Derek Hale.  He was so onboard he wanted it on a T-shirt: I would bottom for Derek Hale; no others need apply.  
  
Derek's sunglasses pressed against his sternum as Stiles pushed in closer, gripping the fabric on the back of Derek's shirt and feeling the muscles in Derek's shoulders and across his back.  He was starting to get hard and found himself tilting his hips forward, looking for more contact, grinding himself against Derek's stomach as Derek groaned and dug his fingers into Stiles' ass.  Stiles bucked forward enthusiastically as Derek played with the waistband of his boxers and then bit back a moan when he felt a hand dip down the back of his pants and palm his bare ass.  
  
_Holy God.  I am about to get fingered.  I am about to get fingered  for the first time ever and it's going to be in a parking lot behind the batting cages._  
  
Stiles was bizarrely okay with this, really hard, and also really bizarrely okay with this.  
  
Derek ran his finger down the cleft of Stiles' ass, pushing him back against the side of the car and sucking a hickey into the hinge of his jaw.  Stiles clutched at Derek's shoulders and started to pant.  He could feel his own pulse thundering in his ears, in the back of his throat and behind his eyelids.  Derek's finger brushed up against his opening and he held himself very still, reminding himself to continue to breath,  while Derek touched him.  
  
Then Derek stopped.  One hand still down the back of Stiles' pants and the other holding him up by his thigh, Derek just sort of looked at Stiles for a second, before leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth and putting him down.  He slipped his hand out of the back of Stiles' jeans and grabbed his baseball hat of the roof of the car.  
  
Three seconds later, Derek was, once more, completely composed: hat and sunglasses back on, shirt pulled straight and pants smoothed down.  Even the mortifying amount of slobber that Stiles, in his enthusiasm, had left all over Derek's face was entirely wiped away.  He looked like he might as well have been coming back from the bank.  
  
Stiles, on the other hand, did not look anywhere close to composed.  He could see himself reflected in Derek's aviator sunglasses and he looked about as far from composed as it was possible to get.  He looked wrecked, utterly destroyed, about thirty seconds short of having been fucked up against the side of a car in a goddamn parking lot.  Which was, suitable enough, also exactly how he felt.  
  
He lay there against the car for a second, watching his own reflection.  "I kind of hate you right now."  
  
Derek broke into the world's biggest shit-eating grin, then reached out to pull the brim of Stiles' backwards baseball cap around to the front and steered him towards the passenger side of the car, still grinning.  "Get in, I'll take you home."  
  
Stiles stumbled around the side of the car, groaning and doing his best to straighten his clothes and adjust his massive erection.  He was over-all pretty glad that he hadn't actually been fingered, for the first time ever, in the parking lot behind the batting cages.  Public indecency laws aside, the lack-of-lube thing probably made it a touch ambitious for a first try and the in-a-parking-lot thing probably made it a touch trashy for a second date.  But the fact that Derek could get him to a place where he had been even considering allowing himself to get fingered in broad fucking daylight in a parking lot behind the batting cages made Derek, in Stiles' opinion, a goddamn menace to society.  
  
Stiles spent the first few minutes of the car ride back trying to get himself calmed down and slightly less debauched looking.  Derek continued to appear utterly unaffected, which wasn't much of a surprise.  They'd known each other for five years and, up until a week ago, Derek hadn't even had Stiles' correct phone number.  
  
"What number were you using that made you think my phone was disconnected, anyways?  Or were you just having trouble with your new smartphone?"  
  
Stiles could feel Derek roll his eyes from behind his sunglasses.  "I don't know where you get the idea that I'm some kind of a luddite but I'm really not.  I wasn't even using a smartphone anyway, I was calling from a payphone in Argentina."  
  
"Dude, Peter pulled out his laptop and you asked him if it was a book, forgive me for assuming shit.  Also, when were you calling me from Argentina?"  
  
"He didn't pull out a laptop.  He pulled out a briefcase and called the thing a bestiary.  You're saying you didn't expect a book?"  Derek switched his blinker on and merged onto the main drag across town.  "And I was in Argentina couple of years ago."  
  
"What, like, after that thing in Mexico?  You called?"  
  
"Yeah, just to check in.  I tried you first and when the number I had for you didn't go through, I tried Scott.  I probably just had an old number."  
  
Stiles raised an eyebrow, this was news to him.  "Did you get through?  He never mentioned."  
  
Derek shrugged, "He sounded pretty preoccupied with graduation, said everything was fine.  We didn't talk long."  
  
"That sounds about right.  He was so determined to take care of everything totally on his own that summer.  He didn't even tell me what was up."  
  
"Hmm?  No, this was before you guys graduated.  April, maybe?  He was worried about finals."  
  
"Huh."  Stiles looked over at Derek for a second, then looked away again.  "April?  You sure?"  
  
"Pretty sure."  
  
"Huh."  He scratched at a dry spot on his jaw where he had given himself a little bit of razor burn that morning.  "Yeah, well, my number hasn't changed since forever so you probably just had the wrong number or something."  
  
Derek shrugged again, "Like I said."  
  
~~~~~  
  
Stiles stared into the darkness over his bed, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily in the center of his room.  He should let it go.  Obsessing wasn't healthy.  
  
He had allowed the conversation to move on and decisively not thought about it all the way through the rest of the car ride home.  He had not thought about it all the way through helping his dad lay in a new sprinkler system that evening and continued to not think about it all the way through dinner.  He had gotten ready for bed, stared at himself in the mirror as he flossed and brushed his teeth, and not thought about it.  
  
But now he lay in bed, his ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead, throwing dark shadows across the already dark room, and there was suddenly nothing to do but thing.  
  
Fuck this.  Stiles sat up, pulling his cell phone off its charger on the nightstand, and pressed the first number on his speed dial.  
  
Scott answered after two rings.  "If you're calling to give me a post-game breakdown of your date, I'm hanging up."  
  
"Did Derek call you at some point during our last semester of senior year?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"That year Derek was gone, did he call you?"  
  
"Uhhh... yeah, I guess he did.  I totally forgot about that, why?"  
  
"When was it?  When did he call you?"  
  
"Umm... I didn't mark it on my calendar or anything but, maybe early April?  It was, you know, while you were gone."  
  
"Gone as in: erased from existence by the Wild Hunt or gone as in: off to college."  This was the sort of point Stiles wanted to be explicitly clear on.  
  
"Uhh... the first one, when you were in limbo, after the Ghost Riders had taken you."  
  
"You're absolutely sure."  
  
"Yeah, I mean, it was a pretty weird, not having you around.  It kinda sticks out in my mind, to say the least."  
  
"And he'd never called again, before or after that?  Not, like, over the summer or something?"  
  
"Stiles, I'm pretty sure I would remember if Derek had been blowing up my cell phone.  It was just the once.  Now, what's going on?"  
  
Stiles watched the numbers on his alarm clock blink over from 10:59 to 11:00.  He looked up at the ceiling again and watched the fan slowly rotate overhead.  "Nothing."  
  
"Stiles, you're kinda freaking me out."  
  
It wasn't possible.  Something else must have happened.  Maybe Derek hadn't been able to reach Scott right away and had been forced to try again a few weeks later.  
  
Stiles shook his head.  "It's cool, Scott, chill.  I was just surprised to hear he'd called, you know?  Very un-Derek-like behavior."  
  
"Okay..."  
  
"Thanks, that's it.  Goodnight, Scott."  
  
"Goodnig-"  
  
He hung up before Scott finished saying goodbye, Scott wouldn't hold it against him, he was a good friend like that.  
  
Stiles went back to staring up at the ceiling.  He indulged his idle thoughts for another minute, then flipped over onto his stomach and tried to sleep.  _No way.  No way Derek Hale remembered me.  No fucking way._  
  
~~~~~  
  
Three hours later, Stiles was standing outside Derek's loft, leaning against the buzzer, waiting to be let in.  After a few minutes, he pulled out his cell phone.  
  
**let me in**  
  
**I'm outside**  
  
The door buzzed and Stiles shoved it open, sprinting up the stairs to Derek's loft.  
  
Derek was already standing in the open doorway when Stiles got to the top floor.  He had obviously just rolled out of bed, having barely taken the time to even pull on pants.  His shirt looked rumpled and slept in and he wasn't wearing a belt.  He opened the door a little further to let Stiles in, then shut it behind them and slid the deadbolt home.  "Sorry.  The buzzer doesn't always work.  What's going on?"  
  
Stiles walked further into the apartment.  The lighting was dim, just two lamps had been turned on, one way off in the far corner next to Derek's bed and another a little closer, in front of the sofa.  Stiles walked towards the sofa and sat down.  Then sprang to his feet again and paced up and down in front of it.  Now that he was here, he felt stupid.  He could have just texted, or waited till morning.  Or waited till morning and then texted.  Like a sane person.  
  
Why couldn't he just chill out?  Why was he always like this?  Obsessive.  Unstable.  Why couldn't he just let shit go?  
  
"Stiles."  Derek's voice interrupted Stiles' thoughts as they started to circle back on each other.  "What's wrong?  Is anyone in danger?"  
  
"No.  No, everything's fine."  Stiles scrubbed at his face.  "No one is in danger and everything's fine."  
  
"You're not acting like everything's fine."  
  
"I know.  I'm just freaking out.  But everything's fine."  
  
"Stiles..."  Derek's voice had a slight edge to it.  He crossed his arms.  "Tell me."  
  
"It's stupid, okay?  It's stupid but I'm freaking out anyways."  
  
"What's stupid?"  
  
"That thing you were talking about earlier, where you tried to call me but my number was disconnected so you called Scott instead?  I need to know everything about that.  Tell me what happened.  Exactly what happened."  
  
Derek just stared at Stiles for a second.  
  
"Look, there's a reason, okay?  Just, tell me and I'll explain it.  But you need to tell me first."  
  
Derek sighed and sat down on the couch, having seemingly decided that this was, indeed, not an emergency situation.  "Well, there's not much to tell.  I was in Argentina.  I thought I'd check in, and you always know the most about what's going on, so I tried calling you."  
  
"When?"  
  
"April.  I was in Argentina all through April, two years ago.  I had your number and I had Scott's number.  I tried calling you, but I kept getting an error message.  I tried maybe two or three times, then I called Scott."  
  
"Right away?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You called Scott right away after you tried calling me?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And you got ahold of him right away?  Right then?"  
  
"Yeah."  Derek yawned and scratched at the stubble on his chin.  
  
"And that was the only time you called him, or tried calling him.  Just that one time.  That's the whole story?"  
  
"That's it."  
  
Stiles started pacing again, running his hands through his hair and scratching at his scalp.  
  
"Stiles, what's going on?"  Derek sounded tired and a little exasperated.  
  
"You see, you couldn't have called Scott in April, because you couldn't have been trying to call me in April.  But that's exactly what Scott said.  He said you called him just the one time, in early April, to check in and make sure everything was okay.  And he said everything was okay.  But everything was not okay.  Everything was very not okay.  He just didn't know how not okay everything was because he couldn't remember, which is why you have to be wrong, because there is no way you tried to call me in early April."  
  
"Stiles, you're not making any sense.  I misdialed, okay?  It happens."  
  
"No, you don't understand.  I didn't exist in early April my senior year of high school.  The Wild Hunt took me, okay?  My phone wasn't disconnected, it had never been in service.  My _dad_ didn't remember I existed.  Lydia's a banshee and she barely noticed something was missing.  There is no way you just randomly decided to call me, okay?  Either you're remembering wrong or... or..."  Stiles gestured spasmodically in front of himself, having run out of words.  
  
The silence stretched on for a full minute.  
  
"Okay..."  Derek said, carefully.  "Maybe I'm remembering wrong."  
  
Stiles glanced over at Derek, then scrubbed at his face again and breathed out slowly through his hands.  He collapsed onto the couch, his hands still mostly over his face.  "You're not though, are you?"  
  
The slight pause before Derek responded was telling enough.  "Maybe it's a distance thing.  Maybe I was far enough away for it not to affect me."  
  
"I was erased from existence.  I'm pretty sure that's something that applies to all time zones."  
  
"I don't know Stiles."  It was Derek's turn to sigh and rub at his face tiredly.  "Maybe I'm mistaken.  Or maybe I did try to call you and the Wild Hunt has no effect on full-shit werewolves.  We're pretty rare and certain things affect us differently.  Is it really that important?"  
  
Well, that was only slightly soul-crushing.  
  
Stiles opened his mouth to retort that, yes, it really was that important.  The whole world had forgotten about him and, as much as he knew that it wasn't anybody's fault and that his friends had remembered eventually, it still sort of stung sometimes.  Nothing plays up one's inadequacies quite like being wiped out of existence and having nobody notice.  So the idea that maybe somebody had, in fact, continued to remember him, was kind of a big deal.  But when he turned towards Derek to say just that, Derek looked... tired.  Tired and slightly confused.  
  
Derek was looking at Stiles like Stiles had woken him up at two in the morning to have a panic attack about Hostess going out of business and now where was he going to get his Zebra cakes?  Because, of course Derek wouldn't understand why Stiles was having a hard time letting this go.  Derek was the fucking champion of letting shit go.  Derek let shit go like it was a full-time job.  He had been run through with a pipe, dropped four stories to his almost-death and been forced to kill his own Beta.  Then, barely a year later, he had stood there watching Scott morn the fucker who had ordered it all and even shown fucking sympathy for Scott's loss.  Derek wouldn't be able to _function_ if he weren't so damn good at letting shit go.  
  
"We can look into it, if you want.  But don't make it mean more than it is, okay?"  Derek shifted around on couch to face him.  
  
Stiles didn't look up.  He had dropped his head down to his knees and was refusing to make eye contact.  "Yeah.  Oh course."  
  
Derek was right.  What was Stiles even thinking?  That Derek had somehow remember him because they were, what?  Soulmates, like something straight out of the worst harlequin romance novel?  How stupid and cliched could he be?  Soulmates weren't real and even if they were he certainly wouldn't want Derek to be his.  Derek was just hot, he had a great ass that Stiles wanted a piece of.  That was it.  That was why Stiles had asked him out in the first place.  
  
It had nothing to do with his fantastic smile and his stupidly infectious laugh and his totally not-funny deadpan sense of humor, or that he secretly loved baseball and was kind of a dude-bro, but was also painfully self-sacrificing in a way that was so goddamn grumpy you almost didn't notice.  It was not related to the stupid way he rolled his eyes and acted all put-upon, even when he was practically biting his cheeks trying to hold back a smile.  Stiles didn't know Derek.  This was all just casual.  It was good that they were on the same page.  
  
"Scott told me that Lydia remembered you first after you were taken."  Derek's voice sounded sleep-rough and Stiles hated how much he liked that.  Why did he always have to be noticing things he liked about Derek?  He already liked basically everything about Derek.  There shouldn't be any more to like.  There should be, at some point, a maximum number of things for Stiles to like, unless Derek was some kind of an infinite person, a bottomless well of things for Stiles to discover and like.  
  
"Then you two started dating right after."  Derek paused to scratch at the stubble on his chin, or so Stiles assumed.  Stiles couldn't actually see, he was still too busy wallowing in his non-soulmate-having status.  
  
"I...   Stiles, it's the middle of the night, I don't know what I'm saying.  But my point is: I like you.  You're rude and paranoid and hyper-vigilant and untrusting and you lie all the time and you're sort of all over the place, but I like you.  
  
"I hate all this mysticism crap that gets lumped in with being a werewolf, though.  Peter's tried to sell me on all kinds of bullshit over the years and even if the Wild Hunt doesn't affect me for whatever reason, that doesn't mean anything.  It's not some kind of a sign.  
  
"I don't want it to be a sign.  I don't want extreme circumstances or fate or any of that garbage to dictate my life anymore.  I like you.  You're loyal.  You protect the people you care about and I've never known you to pretend to be anything you're not.  I don't want this to be about anything more than that.  Just that I like you and..."  Derek paused and looked away.  When he spoke again, his voice come out slightly lower and slightly quieter, like he was making himself tell a secret he had always planned on keeping to himself.  "I trust you."  
  
Stiles didn't even look up.  He just crawled into Derek's lap and pulled Derek's head down onto his shoulder and held him there.  Derek's hair was crusty from having had product in it all day and his shirt smelled a bit ripe, like maybe he had grabbed it out of the dirty laundry on his way to answering the door, but that was nice in its own way.  It was reassuring that Derek had flaws, that he was a real person.  Maybe he hated doing laundry.  Stiles hated doing laundry.  It could be something they fought over.  Stiles wanted that: to fight over stupid domestic things with Derek.  
  
"You trust too many people."  It broke Stiles' fucking heart how many people Derek trusted.  Stiles could count the number of people he trusted on one hand and nobody had ever framed him for murder, unlike Derek, to whom that had happened twice.  Three times.  Three times that Stiles knew of.  "You shouldn't trust so many fucking people all the time."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I trust you too."  It felt like a big thing to say.  Like speaking it out-loud was, itself, an act of trust and all of a sudden his eyes started to feel sore and watery and his nose itched and threatened to start running.  
  
Stiles turned away to sniff and wipe his nose on his shirtsleeve, lest he start to crying.  "Ugh.  No more midnight confessions, okay?  Next time I show up at your door having an anxiety attack, can we please just binge-watch the Rocky movies or something?"  
  
Derek smiled, just a tiny upturn in the corners of his mouth, and shook his head.  "Come on, let's go to bed."  He got to his feet and held out his hand for Stiles.  
  
Stiles allowed himself to be guided towards the back of the loft, where Derek's big double-bed was set up, emptying his pockets onto the nightstand in something like a daze.  He was incredibly tired all of a sudden.  It was coming on 3 A.M. and he still hadn't slept.  He stripped down to his underwear and pulled on the sweats that Derek laid out for him. The they fit much better than he would have expected.  He'd always thought of Derek as much bigger than him.  Derek sort of projected the aura of being a big guy, which he only sort of was.  He wasn't small by any means, but he really wasn't a giant either.  He was just Derek: solid in a nice way and kind of goofy when no one was watching.  
  
Derek was also, incidentally, someone who hadn't washed his sheets at any point in the past month.  Stiles would know, he wasn't a weekly sheets-washer either and he recognized the signs.  The whole bed smelled like Derek and not even a little bit like laundry detergent, which probably should have been gross, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to find it anything other than comforting.  
  
He heard the light click off next to the bed and the mattress dipped as Derek climbed in beside him.  It was a big bed, which was nice.  Stiles liked to sprawl out on his stomach like a starfish.  Ever since he'd gone through his growth spurt and his shoulders had filled out, sleeping on his side had just felt awkward and uncomfortable.  It made spooning impossible and bed-sharing kind of a problem.  
  
Derek didn't seem bothered.  He just nudged Stiles' leg to the side where it was stretching too far onto his side and they moved around each other until they were both settled.  Derek was laid out on his back and Stiles had the sudden strange urge to crawl over on top of him and try to sleep like that, with his head on Derek's stomach and his body sprawled out between Derek's legs.  It looked... it looked like it would be incredibly uncomfortable.  But maybe they could try it sometime anyway.  Stiles wanted to.  
  
"Derek?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Are we dating now?"  
  
"Probably"  
  
Stile propped himself up on his elbow so he could peer over at Derek in the near-darkness.  "What do you mean, probably?"  
  
Derek groaned and rolled over onto his stomach.  "I mean: if you fuck anyone else while you're away at school, we won't be dating anymore."  
  
  
**_Baby, can you handle this?_**  
**_Baby, can you handle this?_**  
**_Baby, can you handle this?_**  
**_I don't think you can handle this_**  
  
  
Stiles let his eyes roam over the line of Derek's back.  He had very nice shoulders and a very nice ass.  It gave him curves.  _There should be more songs written about men with nice curves._   Stiles thought to himself.  _Or just Derek.  Derek should have songs written about him._  
  
The rolling line of Derek's back reminded him of a tidal wave: strong, powerful.  Stiles wanted to touch it.  "I wouldn't fuck anyone else if I had a boyfriend."  
  
He reached out, carefully brushing one hand across Derek's shoulders, letting it whisper gently down his back and then settle lightly at the top of his ass.  "Will you be my boyfriend?"  
  
Derek had changed into sweatpants and a fresh T-shirt, similar to what he had given Stiles to wear and, knowing what he'd had on when he had answered the door earlier, Stiles took this to mean that he probably normally slept in just his underwear.  Stiles rubbed his fingers across the soft fabric of Derek's sweatpants and felt the way his body curved up from the small of his back to the top of his ass.  
  
  
_**Yeah, boy, you like that, oh**_  
_**I can tell that you like that, oh**_  
_**Yeah, boy, you love it**_  
  
  
Stiles really needed to stop listening to so much hip hop.  
  
Derek opened his eyes and for a second they just looked at each other.  Then Derek replied, "Yes.  I will be your boyfriend."  
  
Stiles smiled.  "Good."  Holding his arm up was getting too tiring.  He let it drop down to rest on the mattress so that he was more just petting Derek's hip, rather than his ass.  Derek's hip was nice too, though.  It vaguely occurred to Stiles around this time that maybe he should have asked before starting in on the touching.  "Is this okay?"  
  
They'd only had two official dates.  Stiles wasn't really sure what the bed-sharing etiquette was for someone you were dating but not yet fucking.  He'd never done the dating without fucking thing.  The fucking had always been immediate, and the dating had always been somewhat... incidental to the fucking.  How did one transition from dating without fucking to dating and fucking?  The three date rule seemed somewhat arbitrary.  What if they wanted to wait longer?  Stiles wanted to wait as long as Derek wanted to wait, but he didn't want a situation where they were both just out-waiting each other either.  And what about touching?  Was touching allowed?  Touching might seem pushy or pressuring.   But really, Derek felt so nice.  Just the touching, by itself, was enough.  
  
Derek groaned and grabbed Stiles' hand, tucking it under his arm and up against his chest.  "Go to sleep, Stiles.  If I didn't want you touching me, I'd have bitten your hand off by now.  Stop worrying.  The reason we're taking it slow is because you've already had sex with half the pack and I don't always make good decisions."  
  
Stiles' eyes flew open and he halfway sat up, offended, "I have not had sex with half the pack!"  
  
"Malia, Lydia, and that thing with Kira last summer makes three.  I'd be number four."  
  
"That was... that..."  Stiles groaned, collapsing back down onto his pillow.  "Kira and I were both on the rebound, okay?  It was just the once.  Oh my God, am I really the pack bicycle?"  
  
"I'm not judging you.  Besides, I'm really not in a position to criticize."  Derek adjusted his grip on Stiles' hand, running his thumb over the knuckles.  "We can go out for waffles in the morning if it'll make you feel better."  
  
Stiles sighed and wiggled his fingers.  He'd never held hands in bed before.  It was nicer than he'd thought it would be.  "Won't waffles give you a sugar-crash?  I thought you were against unhealthy breakfasts."  
  
"Waffles are worth a sugar-crash.  They're amazing.  Now go to sleep."  
  
"Mmmm."  Stiles smiled to himself as he closed his eyes.  
  
Derek liked waffles.  
  
Derek liked waffles, baseball, fantasy sports, and sleeping in his underwear.  He did not like ketchup, pancakes, doing laundry, predestination or the designated hitter.  
  
He felt his smile widen as he wiggled his fingers against Derek's chest.  "Derek?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You make me want to play all the positions."  
  
"Are we talking about baseball or is this an analogy?"  
  
"Both.  You're right, the designated hitter is stupid."  
  
"Stiles, go to sleep."  
  
"Mmmm."

**Author's Note:**

> For non-baseball fans: the designated hitter rule allows another player, known as the designated hitter (DH), to bat in the place of the pitcher (generally the weakest hitter on the team). This rule is used by MLB's American League but not the National League (in the National League the pitcher is required to bat just like everyone else).
> 
> Derek is a Mets fan because I say so. Also, having Stiles give him shit about it makes me laugh.
> 
> Playlist
> 
> Twerk Dat Ass by Project Pat and Juicy J  
> iTwerk by 99 Percent  
> Dance (A$$) Remix by Big Sean featuring Nicki Minaj  
> Bootylicious by Destiny's Child  
> Drop It Low by Ester Dean featuring Chris Brown
> 
> Or just go to the [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/harlanhardway/playlist/0sgOvSEUoDDr9udJmpiKWp)!!


End file.
